Dead to the World
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Sam's exhausted from struggling with nightmares of Jess; what would a few sleeping pills hurt?


_Previously appeared in _Road Trip With My Brother 2_ (2006), from Agent With Style  
Formerly titled "Dream a Little Dream," before Kripke decided he liked the name, too._

**Dead to the World**  
K Hanna Korossy

They entered the motel room wearily, dropping bags and jackets haphazardly as they went. Sam trudged to the far bed—he'd long given up trying to convince Dean it wasn't necessary to sleep between him and the door—and sank down on the edge. Dean glanced over at him as he pulled out a change of clothes and his shaving kit.

"You wanna hit the shower first?"

Sam shook his head. "Think I'm just gonna brush my teeth and turn in."

A nod toward the bathroom door. "Why don't you go first, then? I plan to stay in there until all the hot water's gone."

Sam smiled faintly. "You know, you spend more time in the bathroom than Jess did." The smile faded.

Dean was watching him again. "Yeah, well, it takes work to look this good." His grin made Sam snort.

"Yeah, I'll bet." He heaved himself to his feet, grabbing his own kit. "I'll be out in a minute."

"No rush."

There wasn't, for once. They were on their way to a job in Tennessee, some place where people were randomly walking off into the local lake and drowning. But the incidences were always a week or two apart, and they had a few days before the next was expected. Dean had decided it wouldn't hurt to get a room on the way and a good night's sleep after the recent glut of night-driving and hunting.

Sam dropped his kit on the counter by the sink and stared dully at his reflection. The sleepless nights had taken their toll; even he could see why Dean had been frowning more at him lately and suggesting he nap every time they were on the road. Sam appreciated it, but there was only so much rest you could get in a car, especially when he still ached from two recent jobs gone sour.

Then there were the nightmares…

Sam took a deep breath, digging into his kit beneath his toothbrush and razor, to the small bottle at the bottom. He'd picked it up impulsively nearly a week before and promptly tucked it away without Dean seeing. His brother had actually been the one to suggest sleeping pills in the first place, but something in Sam had always rebelled at the thought. Artificial sleep—how restful could that be? And he shouldn't need the help that night; they weren't leaving first thing in the morning this time, so he could sleep in. Dean would certainly let him. It was an ideal chance to get some rest.

Except for the nightmares.

They'd lessened after Bloody Mary, and even more so after Lawrence. Sam had finally found some peace about Jess's death, and it had penetrated his dreams, much to Dean's satisfaction. But lately…

Sam shook his head. Lately, he'd been possessed, shot Dean as a result, then nearly lost him twice, first to a Scandinavian god, then to a bad heart. And that was before he himself had gotten badly hurt by a victim's misguided brother. Stress didn't begin to cover it. Jess had soon returned to his dreams, bleeding, dying. Freud would have had a field day with his nightmares.

Sam's jaw clenched, and he shook out two of the pills. A good night's rest. His body longed for it, his spirit needed it. He already wasn't at his peak; any more and he risked leaving Dean vulnerable, too slowed by fatigue to protect his back. Dean hadn't said anything about it, but Sam knew he'd noticed, too. He had to get some sleep for both their sakes.

Before he could change his mind, Sam tossed the pills down, followed them with a few swallows of water. There, committed. If something came after them in the middle of the night, Dean would just have to handle it on his own. Sam snorted softly.

"Hey, you fall in the toilet, Sam?" came his brother's question through the door.

Sam rolled his eyes as he pulled out his toothbrush. "What happened to no rush?"

"What happened to just brushing your teeth?"

"You can't hurry good hygiene, Dean."

He couldn't quite hear the mutters through the door over the running water, but "California" and "wuss" were clearly audible. Sam was grinning by the time he rinsed.

A good night's sleep. He could hardly wait.

00000

Dean came out of the bathroom in a cloud of cooling steam, feeling like a new man. It wasn't exactly a steam shower, but the water had been hot and plentiful, just what his travel-stiffened body needed. He revived from hot water almost as much as Sam did from sleep.

Speaking of which, his grin softened at the sight of Sam already stretched out in bed, face buried in a pillow as he slept. Thank God. Dean was starting to think he'd have to knock the guy out for him to get some rest. He moved quietly in the dim room, pulling a t-shirt on and stowing his kit carefully to keep from waking his brother up.

Dean knew Sam hadn't been sleeping well recently, probably more so than Sam realized. He knew his brother was still healing physically, and the late nights weren't helping. And he was more than aware the nightmares had gotten worse of late. Dean had listened to the gasped rousings in dark motel rooms while pretending he was asleep, and saw Sam start silently awake from dozes in the car. The jobs had been hard lately, physically and emotionally, and hadn't given them much time to recharge in between. Dean had nearly died more than once, and he knew the kind of toll that took, too. So he'd insisted on this pit stop. Sam needed to rest if Dean was going to let him anywhere near a gun again. Sam needed to rest, period.

Dean crawled into bed, exhaling long and low. Not that he minded sleeping in a real bed for once instead of snatching some z's in the back of the Impala, either. He loved his car, but it really wasn't meant to be a bed. Sam never complained, but those long legs of his never had fit easily in the sedan. They both needed this.

Dean breathed out again, felt the lassitude of approaching sleep wash over him.

And heard a soft moan from the other bed.

Dean winced. Please, not again. A nightmare meant at least an hour or two before Sam could settle back down. They were exhausted, they had a quiet room and soft beds, they had time to sleep. God, let them just get some rest.

Sam moaned again, turning over onto his side.

Dean's breath was a sigh this time. "Sam."

Another restless turn.

Dean lifted his head. "Sam, wake up." Sometimes if he roused before Jess actually started burning, it was easier for him to get back to sleep.

A whimper caught in Sam's throat.

Dean huffed in frustration and sat up, sliding off his bed to cross the two feet of space to Sam's. He shook his brother's shoulder lightly. "C'mon, Sam, wake up. You're dreaming."

Sam flinched and rolled away, a whisper of denial passing his lips. But it wasn't for Dean.

Dean frowned, shook harder. "Sammy!"

But Sam kept sleeping.

00000

He dropped back on the bed, a frozen smile on his face, foreboding in his heart.

A pause. He waited for it.

_Drip. Drip. _

Sam didn't want to open his eyes, knowing what he'd see, but his role had been written long before he'd been cast. He looked up, to see the girl he loved bleeding, in pain, pinned.

Then Jess burst into flames.

He screamed until he was hoarse, watching the fire eat her alive, feeling the heat closing in on him. But there was no one to save him this time. The fire closed in on him, burning, and his screams changed to agony.

And then he dropped back on the bed, his smile a parody now.

Somewhere inside, Sam still kept screaming.

00000

Dean flipped through the journal feverishly, his eyes darting over to Sam at every pause.

The salt circle had been closed around the bed, the dreamcatcher on the bedpost swaying in the breeze of Dean's frantic motions. The windows and doors had been treated with wards, and Dean had sprinkled holy water on the bed. Nothing had helped. Sam still struggled against whatever it was that had him trapped in his nightmares, neck and arms corded against the strain, sweat soaking his clothes, small wounded sounds forcing their way past his lips. Wherever he was, it was Hell. And Dean couldn't find how to get him out.

Sam twisted again in bed, and Dean read a little faster. "Hang on, Sam," he muttered automatically. "Hang on, I'll figure this out." Somehow.

There were things that fed on sleepers. Succubi, obviously, boo-hags, variations on boogiemen, sandmen, and dreamwalkers. Some of them even fed on nightmares, but Dean couldn't find any physical sign one was present and was running out of wards and rites to try. He flipped to a general incantation of protection and read that out loud, careful not to stumble over the Latin, but that had no effect, either. Sam moaned again, and Dean chewed his lip hard enough to taste blood.

Okay, so the journal wasn't going to be any help. Which made sense, because he couldn't remember Dad and him ever encountering something like this before. That meant he needed the other reference books, out in the trunk. Dean grimaced, head swiveling between his brother and the door. He hated to leave Sam, but in a way, he already had. The idea was to get him back. And for that, Dean needed the books.

"I'll be right back, little brother," he said, fingers briefly circling Sam's wrist before he hurried to the door.

He returned a minute later, lugging a stack of research material. Sam looked the same as when he'd left him, face twisted in pain. Dean only spared him a glance before picking up the first book and quickly starting to skim, not even sure where to start.

The books were usually more Sam's domain…but Dean would just have to do this time.

00000

_Drip, drip. _

No. Sam's whole body tightened. No, he refused to look. He refused to play this game anymore.

His eyes opened.

Long blonde hair, face frozen in agony, blood dripping off the slit nightgown. But it wasn't Jess's face this time that stared at him in silent accusation. Mary Winchester was affixed to the ceiling in a rictus of pain. And then the fire exploded.

Oh, God. He wanted to close his eyes against the sight, couldn't bear to see her burn, too. But his body wasn't his own, his soul curled up helplessly in the corner while his muscles and bones obeyed the script, flailing, screaming, eventually struggling against the fire's heat.

And then he fell back on the bed with that sick smile.

His sanity was shredding, pieces falling away with each repeat. This was only a dream, Sam knew it was, but he couldn't wake up, couldn't do anything but play out the horrible act each time to its conclusion. He was going crazy, he could feel it, and cried for help, for his brother, for an end.

_Drip, drip._

00000

Dean's hands were trembling as he pulled clothes out of his duffel, tossing them aside, then dumping the rest of the contents of the bag on his bed. Nothing. He cursed under his breath, moved on to Sam's bag. The blessed rosary, it had to be somewhere. He needed it for the ritual but it wasn't in the journal's binding where Sam had twined it. Dean yanked clothes out with abandon, trying to ignore the whimpers coming from Sam.

Sam's kit was tucked in the side, and Dean pawed through it impatiently. Where had he…

His hands slowed, picking up the bottle that lay on top. Sleeping pills? But Sam had never… Dean looked up at his brother, then flipped the lid off the bottle and poured the pills onto the bed, counting. Two missing. One dose. Tonight? The bottle hadn't been buried in the kit. He'd been looking for a spiritual source for Sam's entrapment, but maybe it had been a pharmacological one all along?

Dean made a face. No, even sleeping pills didn't keep you from waking up. This had all the hallmarks of something from their line of work. Or…maybe some of Sam's freakiness. But with a little chemical boost?

Dean stared at the pills for a minute, then lunged for his own kit.

Sam was always trying to sleep; Dean usually needed something to help him stay awake. Caffeine pills did the trick when coffee wasn't enough, and he dug the half-empty bottle out of his stuff. You weren't supposed to mix uppers with downers, but they could deal with possible side effects later. If it woke Sam up, Dean didn't care what else it did.

There was the little matter of getting it into him, however. Dean grabbed one of the complimentary mugs off the table and dropped a pair of pills into its bottom. He ground them into powder with the hilt of his knife, then ran to the bathroom for a little water, swirling the mug until the powder had dissolved completely. Maybe this would work. Back out into the room, Dean sat on the edge of Sam's bed and lifted his brother from the pillow with one arm.

"Okay, Sam, I need you to swallow this for me," he said, tipping the mug to Sam's lips. He'd had to force-feed his brother before, when illness or injury left Sam unconscious or too weak to take care of himself. The swallow reflex usually worked, but Dean had no idea if that would be the case now. He didn't pour a lot into his brother's mouth, just in case.

Sam sputtered, moaning, but swallowed.

"Good boy," Dean said warmly, and tilted the mug again. "Just a little more, okay?"

He managed to get all the water into Sam, until only a fine coat of grit remained in the bottom of the mug. Still, that meant most of the pills had gone down, and if they acted as quickly as the sleeping pills had, maybe this would be over soon. Dean fervently hoped so. Anguished lines seemed permanently carved into Sam's brow, and his murmur against Dean's chest was breathless.

Dean held him a moment longer, then laid him carefully back down on the bed. He had a rosary to find and one last rite to try.

00000

His mother died over and over above his bed until Sam no longer had the energy to grieve.

Seeing her in Lawrence had made an abstract real, and the pain of seeing her die now cut like it never had before. To lose two such beautiful people from the meager circle of his loved ones was worse than any fire's burn. To lose them that way, witness to their torment, was unbearable. Yet he kept doing it over and over again.

Sam felt the drip of her blood on his face, and moaned. He couldn't do this. He couldn't see her die one more time.

He opened his eyes.

Dean was on the ceiling.

Sam stared at him, mind frozen in shock. Until Dean's hand twitched.

And then Sam snapped.

_"No!" _The bellow made it past his lips this time instead of being trapped in his head. He still flailed against the bed, trying to get away from the drip of his brother's blood. Dean's mouth parted, expressive eyes vivid with pain.

The last of his sanity was slipping away, and, mindlessly, Sam leapt up, yanked.

The fire followed them both down to the bed.

00000

Sam's fingers were longer, but they fit, curled, in Dean's hand.

Sometimes they threatened to pull free in his restlessness, other times they clenched Dean hard enough to bruise bone, but he didn't pull away. He'd done everything he could now, chants turned to heartfelt prayer, holy water to the wet washcloth with which he kept wiping the sweat off Sam's face. All of Dean's training and knowledge and supplies, and it had come down to this: hanging on to his brother so Sam, in some way, wouldn't have to go through his Hell alone. Dean had tried to open a door for him, but it was up to Sam now to find it. To free Dean from his own nightmare.

It had been…he stared dumbly at the clock. Nearly a half-hour since he'd given Sam the drugged water. The caffeine should have taken effect by now, or at least loosened the sleeping pills' hold. It wasn't working, and Dean didn't know what else to do. He didn't know what else to do.

Sam suddenly gasped, body nearly arching off the bed.

Dean's head rose, hands moving before he had any notion of what they could do.

Hazel eyes, bloodshot to nearly brown, snapped open.

Dean stared at them, incredulous. "Sam?"

Sam's chest was still fluttering up and down, fast enough to be near hyperventilation. He was staring at the ceiling, eyes wide with disbelief and horror unlike Dean had ever seen in him.

The ceiling.

Dean's voice firmed. "Sam." He grasped the gaping jaw, gently turned the face his way. "You with me?"

Sam blinked. "Dean?" His voice was raw and had all the self-assurance of the three-year-old who used to climb into Dean's bed with him. And his hands were…well, getting a little personal there, until Dean realized what he was checking.

He reached down and pulled his own shirt up, exposing unmarked skin. "I'm not cut, Sam, I'm fine. You were…having a nightmare." And if any words ever seemed inadequate, it was those.

Sam's eyes squeezed shut, nose wrinkling. Fighting for control; Dean had caught the sheen of tears as Sam absorbed his words. Embarrassed. Sam had always been more sensitive, while raw emotion unsettled Dean more than teeth or claws.

But he'd never meant for Sam to become him, either.

Dean grimaced, pulled his brother to him and wrapped arms around him. Offering silent permission to drop the Winchester stiff-upper-lip act for a moment and do whatever he needed, because Sam's comfort had always come before his own.

His brother fought it briefly, the tense confusion lasting a few seconds before breaking. He let out a sob, arms coming up to clutch Dean's back.

Dean just held him tighter and rode out the storm.

So relief had made him a little mushy, so what? After sitting by for helpless hours while Sam suffered alone…this wasn't so bad.

00000

Sam watched the TV with an utter lack of interest, and tried not to doze.

Dean, sitting next to him on the bed, had hidden yawns a few times, too, but gamely kept watching, nudging Sam occasionally and commenting on the leading lady's attributes. To Sam's eyes, she'd blurred past recognizability a long time ago. He needed sleep.

He was terrified to sleep.

The nightmare memories kept slipping past his determined distraction, a parade of dying loved ones. Sam didn't think he could survive a second act, of watching Dean burn, maybe their father. He really would lose it then. If Dean hadn't been there the last time to pull him out and keep him together after… Sam shivered. He couldn't sleep.

He _needed _sleep.

"Sam, you can't stay awake forever, you know."

The voice took a moment to push through the fog of his brain, but then he smiled mirthlessly at Dean. "I can try." The words came out like syrup.

"Yeah, and I'll come visit you at the funny farm between jobs."

Sam winced. "Dean—"

Dean clicked the TV off, turned toward him, gaze as frankly concerned as it had been since Sam had first broken free of his nightmare world. "Look, the only thing you did different last time was the pills, right? They've worn off by now, so there's no reason to think it'll happen again."

"I can't take that chance."

"You don't have a choice!"

Sam recoiled, knowing it was true.

Dean's tone dropped. "I'll be right here, Sam—I won't let it happen again."

He didn't make idle promises. Sam scrubbed his face. It felt like putty. "You can't stop it."

"We did last time."

It was the same voice that had promised him no more nightmares as a child, that had made him think Dean could do anything. Sam had stopped believing that a long time ago.

Mostly.

The fact was, he didn't know how he'd broken out of the Hell of his nightmares before. Maybe it had been his determination, or maybe it had been one of the dozen rites Dean had obviously tried, or the caffeine. But they'd done it somehow. And Dean was right: the pills, the likely catalyst to all this, were out of his system now. One of Dean's first acts after Sam calmed down was to flush the rest of the bottle down the toilet. And Sam knew he wouldn't be coaxing him to sleep if he believed Sam would get trapped again. There _was_ no reason to think that, or that Sam wouldn't be able to pull out of it if it did.

But terror wasn't reasonable.

"C'mon, man," Dean said quietly. "You need to rest. I'll keep watch."

He wanted to protest that Dean needed sleep, too, but his tongue felt like it had been glued down. He didn't manage more than a murmured protest when he felt Dean tip him over on his side and settle him flat on the bed.

Exhaustion swept over him like the blanket pulled up his body. It was stronger than the fear now, especially when he felt Dean's hand linger on his shoulder in tacit promise.

The TV was turned back on in the background, muted and tinny. Growing more distant as Sam finally gave in and, only a little afraid now, spiraled down into sleep.

Jess and his mother walked through his dreams alive and happy, Dean and his dad uncarved by years of hard living.

And when Sam woke up refreshed late the next day and finally sent Dean to bed, he knew whose strength had saved him the night before.

**The End**


End file.
